All day today I have had a nagging sensation at the edges of my awareness, the sensation you have when you know you've forgotten something. Only, it's what I'm remembering there around the edges of the business of the day that is bothering me. This is September 11th.
The fact that it has been 7 years since that September 11th does nothing to change the fact that it seems strange, somehow, that the world should go on as usual on this day. And yet, it has been 7 years and I realized today that I'm starting to forget. Not that the date September 11th will ever again be unremarkable; it still gives me a seconds pause any time I use it. Nor can I at all forget the horror of that day, though I know it in fact felt more surreal on that day than it did in the days that followed. I remember an elementary school assignment to ask a grandparent or elder where they were when they hear Pearl Harbor had been bombed, and I remember that my grandmother could immediately and definitively tell me she'd been in the dining hall. There is no question I will be able to tell my grandchildren with that same certainty where I was when I learned a plane had crashed in to the World Trade Center.
I was standing in the middle of my basement apartment in D.C. with my morning coffee. My Tax class had been canceled, and I'd turned on the morning news later than usual. The first footage I saw was the Pentagon engulfed in flames, and for a second I thought it was a movie, and a strange movie to be playing so early in the day. I still remember very clearly the feeling of my stomach tightening as I grasped that this was reality, watching the footage change to that of the World Trade Center.
That moment will always be crystal clear, as will others. But, even the pieces I remember so clearly I find I can't quite put in order. Others, I'm sure I've forgotten. Somehow, I thought I'd always remember it all, though I know the mind doesn't work that way.
I remember calling home to reassure my family and that Dad was home alone. He hadn't yet heard of the attacks. But, was that before or after they located the final plane, the one the passengers crashed in to a field? I think it must have been before. I remember clearly how much that missing plane scared me, and that I stayed inside until it went down. They believed the goal might be to bring that plane to the capitol, and I was living only 10 blocks from the capitol. I remember reassuring Dad that my basement apartment was the safest place I could be, protected by all those bricks and under the ground.
It must have been later when I sat on my steps, with my neighbors, and watched the parade of cars evacuating the Hill - using both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue in a mass exodus. Actually, I guess the word would be evacuation. But, it couldn't have been too much later, could it? I remember my landlady, a federal employee at the Department of the Interior, was able to find a way home by mid-day. But, she praised her cab driver for finding a way to get her home through the maze of re-routed streets, so maybe it was much later.
I know I went back out many times during the day. I took a picture of the sun setting behind the Capitol building, flag flying atop, which somehow felt symbolic to me. I don't actually remember the constant noise of the helicopters and planes (presumably military), but I remember telling others about it weeks later and how in that moment it fit.
At some point, I walked to church and sat talking with my friends in hushed tones. Breathing a sigh of relief each time a new member who was traveling or working at the Pentagon was reported safe, but not really feeling strongly about any of it. This, then, was when I had reached the point that it was all surreal. I even remember briefly discussing whether we were crazy to be gathering even closer to the most likely targets and deciding we needed to be at church regardless. That must have been in the afternoon, because I remember that we sat out on the steps. We needed the fresh air and the sun.
I know I was scared for Kayla, who was still a flight attendant for United that year, and that at some point early in the day I learned she wasn't flying that day. Was I able to talk to her or to one of the girls? I remember it was difficult to get a phone line that day. I must have talked to my family again, to Alex. I don't remember it.
Life does, in fact, go back to normal, and the memories do start to fade. But, I suspect this day will always be different, that there will always be the nagging sensation at the edge of it.
I've always hesitated to write about September 11th. So many have written about it more eloquently than I ever could, and others from a much more powerful point of view. Today I decided to write, because I'm starting to forget and I want to remember. This post is for me.
This scarf, for my other aunt, was the only other thing in the queue. I started it just to keep my hands busy when my grandmother was in the hospital. Nothing portable was on the needles, and I'd just finished my linen wrap. So, I grabbed the needles and leftover yarn and cast on for a scarf in the same pattern. While we waited, my aunt admired the emerging pattern and so I knew it was meant to be hers. I was right; she loved it.
But, as it turned out, Wandering Flamingoes, the scarf and a super-secret project for the early spring were all completed well in advance of Christmas. And so, I added another project to the queue, naturally. My almost-married-and-actually-cooking-these-days sister needed an Emmeline apron to go with the cutting board she requested. I mean, look at that cute gathered bodice.
And its power to be easily reversed when you've made a mess of your apron just as your guests are walking in the door.
And the fact that she loves it. She also looks so much better in it than I did. I should probably figure out why and what to adjust before I make one for myself, because I will definitely be making one for myself.
And we visited with the local residents, keeping a safe distance from the Grinch. He is definitely conflicted about his grinchiness, though. He kept coming up asking for attention and trying to convince us the big sign was a big lie and we should pay it no mind.
But, we felt it safer to go to the holiday party and hang out with an elf who paints faces. Plus, we're pretty sure in her contract she promised not to bite.
And now we're spending each evening enjoying the glitter of the Christmas tree. I really love the Christmas season.
It was unseasonably cold, though, and we spent the nights and mornings huddled in our coats and around the fire. But, it warmed up during the day and was great. We did some hiking, and some laying in the sun with the dogs. Just look at this pack. No question who is Alpha, is there? (Trying to count the dogs? Four. And a husband. And, look, they are using the picnic quilt I made!)
And when the gloves came off, I sat around the fire visiting with people I love and knitting on the Ribby Pulli. Heaven on Earth - and some serious progress on a beautiful sweater.
This weekend we attended the wedding of two wonderful people who make an amazing couple. It was also a Hindu Indian wedding and I can't settle on just one or two adjectives to describe it. Beautiful, Breathtaking, Glittering, Awesome, Musical, Huge are all vying with one another. Lesson One: if you want to throw an elegant affair, you simply need to invite Indian women and ensure they wear their sari's. They were beautiful and looked comfortable; I was very jealous and expressed more than once my conviction that I would wear a sari to every dressy event if only I wouldn't look ridiculous. And there were hundreds of them, wearing saris in every color of the rainbow, embroidered, beaded or floating. 
There was food (lots and lots of food), music and dancing. For the family, this literally started on Tuesday and continued through Saturday night. We only attended Friday and Saturday, and I was still awed. When we came in to Friday's celebration, I was told I needed to take bangles. So, I took one set only to have every Indian woman I knew express concern over the next half hour that I didn't have more. I finally took another set and no sooner did I put the bangles on my wrist than the groom's mother walked past me and said "good, good" as she patted my wrist. Lesson Two: less is not more at an Indian wedding. And, just in case I didn't learn that lesson the first time, the Saturday ceremony was three hours long. Yes, three hours. Followed by a cocktail hour and reception with more speeches, food and dancing than I've ever seen in one place. And I can not begin to describe to you how it is they manage to have half a dozen speeches - speeches, not toasts - and stuff us full of plates of spicy food and still have hundreds of people on the dance floor. It was amazing.
My only regret is that I missed the henna. But, one of the other guests was kind enough to let me take a photo of hers. How cool is this?
